Spectrum
by celeryy
Summary: If she was being completely honest, it was the last thing she'd ever have thought he was capable of doing. For more than one reason. But admittedly these were extenuating circumstances.
1. Chapter 1

**NOT MY CHARACTERS. Obviously.**

**A/N: This is an odd and very experimental fic.**** I never imagined that I would write anything like it...It was an uncomfortable yet cathartic experience. It was difficult to tread the fine line between making Sherlock's characterization suave versus threatening.**

**To clarify, I actually really don't think this would ever happen with the canon characters, (hence the whole paragraph of justification), but I suppose that's the fun of writing fanfiction...**

**For some reason, I wrote the whole thing with pronouns, and never used their actual names. I decided to post it like that because of reasons.**

**In any case, I hope it's obvious who the two characters are. (Hint: Sherlock and Molly)**

/

If she was being completely honest, it was the last thing she'd ever have thought he was capable of doing. For more than one reason. But admittedly these were extenuating circumstances. He was feeling powerless, and bored, and probably a bit lonely, even if he'd never admit it. And she, feeling vulnerable, and useless, and more than a little desperate - she had let him.

/

Her P.O.V._  
><em>

_It wasn't really hard to understand his motivation. In just a few short days, everything had been taken from him - his house, his friends, the work he had thrived on, the reputation he had taken such pride in. Now he was cooped up, indefinitely, in a strange house, stuck with the knowledge that he had caused considerable grief to everyone he cared about and that he was powerless to make it up to them. Naturally, he would be frustrated. Naturally, he would feel the overwhelming need to be in control of something, anything - to prove to himself that he still had something to hold onto; something to tie him down so the spinning of the Earth wouldn't pitch him right off into space. Even if that something was as low as petty manipulation. She could see what was happening, and she didn't know how she felt about it. She didn't think she could stop him, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. Did that make her a victim or an enabler?_

_Maybe it would really help, reasoned a quiet voice in the back of her head._

_And maybe, she ventured, maybe she needed it just as much as he did. _

He was standing in the door frame, a tall silhouette back-lit by the soft yellow light in the hall. His features were shadowed and unreadable, but she could see his eyes. They glowed dully, reflecting the nightlight at the foot of her bed.

It was late. She was surprised to see him. She started and sat up quickly.

"Oh! Um - hello," she said, feeling rather flustered. Quite suddenly, she became keenly and painfully aware of the fact that she wasn't wearing anything underneath her thin, cotton t-shirt. She shifted her arms awkwardly to cross them over her chest and made a somewhat conspicuous attempt to tug the comforter up a few inches.

The figure in the doorway didn't move or give any indication that he had noticed her discomfort. Not that that meant he hadn't. She felt her cheeks flush at the thought and felt terribly uncomfortable.

"Evening," he replied, sounding as impassive as ever.

She marveled briefly at the fact that he could still command such an imperious presence while wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"As well as can be expected," came the answer. "Better, actually, if you consider the fact that the general public is currently under the impression that I died last week."

"Well, right. I -" she cut off quickly. Then, gathering herself, she gazed directly at him with a surprising degree of astuteness. "You know what I meant."

This time he paused for a moment. His head dropped just slightly.

"I'm fine," he said. His voice was clipped, hollow. Even in the dim light, she could see his expression darken as he added, "I'm not the one you should be worried for." His breath caught oddly, as if he'd had to stop himself from saying more. He didn't need to, though; for once, she knew what he was thinking.

_I'm not the one who just had to watch my best friend commit suicide. I'm not the one who has to live with the fallout. Relatively speaking, I got off easy.  
><em>She could feel the intensity of his self-loathing, and her heart went out to him.  
>"Well, <em>someone<em> has to be worried for you," she said, smiling weakly. "I don't really have much of a choice, do I? Since...everybody else thinks..." The sentence trailed off awkwardly.

He just stood there, watching her.

_I'm so sorry, _she almost whispered. _It's not fair, not for anyone._ She swallowed, trying to stifle the rush of pity and sorrow which was threatening to spill over into her eyes.

_I'm so, so sorry_.

She wished she could say it. But she didn't. He had no use for sympathy. Besides, she knew he could already read it in her face.

He still hadn't moved or made a reply. He seemed to be waiting. She took a breath and tried a different approach. "Then...is there...That is - Did you want something?"

This time the pause stretched out for an uncomfortably long time, and at some point during the silence, she sensed a change in the atmosphere. It was like a subtle shift in the quality of the space between them.

She suddenly felt very small.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, almost imperceptibly. A smirk.

His eyes flashed.

"_I_ don't want anything."

The strange choice of emphasis jarred in her ears.

She didn't know how to respond. For some reason, her heart had started to race.

"Um..."

She stared at him, feeling utterly lost. Had her brain been this fuzzy a minute ago?

He took a step forward. She made as if to say something, but no words came to mind. Her mouth felt very dry.

His eyes narrowed slightly and his expression became at once both curious and intense. It was _that_ look. She could feel him searching her face, analyzing her reactions. She was an open book.

He took another step towards her. His motions were deliberate and cautious, as if she was a small animal he didn't want to startle. He kept his eyes on her face the whole time, as if watching to see whether she would protest. He turned, grabbed hold of the doorknob, and closed the door behind him in one smooth motion. It clicked shut with a metallic snap that sounded strangely amplified.

"Wh-" She tried again. "What are you doing?" The question was barely more than a whisper.

_She knew - she _knew _- exactly what he was doing. _

"It follows logically from my previous statement that I must have come here because of something _you_ want," he said. His voice was quiet. Calm.

With the door shut, the nightlight was the only source of light in the room. His skin was ghostly and pale in the dim white glow. More so than usual, anyways. The shadows cast by the low angle emphasized the contours of his already ridiculously prominent cheekbones.

She suddenly couldn't help noticing the graceful slope of the muscles in his neck and the definition of his collarbone under that surprisingly flattering t-shirt which was straining just slightly at the shoulders and goodness he _was_ extremely tall...

Presently his gaze stopped roaming her face. Their eyes met and she couldn't blink or look away. At that moment she knew beyond doubt that _both_ of them knew that whatever he was about to do to her, she wasn't going to stop him.

As her face confirmed what he already suspected, she saw his eyes glitter triumphantly.

And then it was like she had woken up from a surreal daze - with a jolt her mind registered the undeniable concreteness of the man standing at the foot of her bed and, at the same time, she felt a rush of _feelings_ course through her body that genuinely frightened her in its intensity. It flooded into her chest and her throat and made her skin burn. She felt all at once confused and scared and overwhelmed and very, very turned on.

Unfortunately, her head seemed to have shorted out. Her poor brain was still trying to catch up.

"I - I don't -" she stammered.

He cut her off. "Come, it's hardly worth it on your part to pretend you don't know what I'm referring to," he said. "Surely my aim has been clear to you for at least the past...oh, twenty-five seconds." He took another step towards her, this time with greater intention. "If you wanted to try to stop me, you've had more than enough time to indicate any urgent sentiments to that effect."

He was very close to her - a looming figure next to the bed.

"This _is_ what you want," he stated simply. It was just a fact.

"And, as it happens," he continued. "It's also what _I_ need."

This was too much.

"I - I thought you didn't..." She looked at him in confusion. "I mean, you never really - um..." she faltered.

He looked faintly amused.

"I can assure you that there is nothing exceptionally unique about my physiological makeup," he said. Looking at him from this angle, she felt rather inclined to disagree. His eyes were boring into hers. She desperately tried to remember how to breathe.

"...certainly," he continued, "not anything that has rendered me incapable of a function as basic as physical arousal."

Nope. There it went. What was oxygen?

"Just because I find intellectual engagement to be a far superior source of stimulation," he went on, "doesn't mean I'm entirely above pursuing alternative options...Especially provided with such..."

She felt the mattress dip as he leaned against it.

"..._extenuating_..."

He was suddenly sitting up right in front of her, with one knee poised on either side of her legs.

"...circumstances."

She'd never heard his voice sound that low. It was like she was feeling it rather than hearing.

Presently, something clicked.

"Does...does that..." she said hesitantly, "make me just some sort of 'last resort'?" she couldn't stop a note of hurt from creeping into the words, in spite of herself.

"I hardly see how that's relevant," he answered dismissively. She realized with a pang that he was entirely, frustratingly right. Again. Of course. She was so hopelessly attracted to him that it hardly made any difference _why_ he had suddenly decided to start acting so..._accommodating_. It occurred to her that anyone in her place who had a shred of dignity would refuse to be so blatantly taken advantage of. But there he was, sitting inches from her with an undeniably _hungry_ expression on his face that she had only ever seen him wear in her wildest fantasies, and somehow, she couldn't summon the willpower to care about silly notions like 'dignity.'

"But..." her heard her mouth speak of its own accord, as a last-ditch effort on behalf of what remained of her rational brain. It was still too unreal. It couldn't be happening. If it really _was_ happening, it was most definitely a very, very Bad Idea.

He stared at her curiously. "I don't see why you feel the inclination to nitpick about context," he said, sounding genuinely bemused. "I imagine it will feel about the same, regardless."

She made a sort of strangled whimpering noise in the back of her throat.

He leaned forward and rested his hands on her shoulders, his face clearly relishing the effect he was having on her. Gently but firmly, he pushed her down until she was effectively pinned against the mattress, directly beneath him. His eyes had gone quite dark.

"And by 'about the same', I do mean 'incredibly pleasurable.'"

She shuddered from head to toe. Every nerve in her body seemed to have gone hypersensitive.

Then, for some reason, she felt inexplicably terrified. She truly didn't believe he was going to hurt her, but all the same, a word popped up unbidden and glared shrilly in her mind's eye: _psychopath_. She knew all too well what the press and people on the street and the entire hospital staff had been saying about this man, and even as she watched him looming over her and breathed in his intoxicating smell, a small panicked voice inside her head saw fit to remind her that he very much _could_ hurt her, if he remotely felt like it.

He froze when he felt her tense up, frowning down at her. After a moment he sighed in annoyance.

"You really ought to stop second-guessing yourself," he scolded. "It's unhealthy to over-think every minor decision."

"Oh..." she breathed, not knowing what to say. She was still trapped by his eyes, even as he lowered his head slowly until their noses were almost touching. When he spoke, it was hardly louder than a whisper.

"Now for pity's sake do shut up and quit being so difficult."

And then he started to kiss her, forcefully on the mouth, and it was such a compelling argument that she had no choice but to just go with it.

/

**A/N**

**Okay, wow. So...that's that.**

**I wrote what happened next, but I'm hesitant about posting it. Add a Comment/Reply if you want the Smut Chapter!...er, that is, the Gratuitous Foreplay Chapter. (Plus a brief bit from Sherlock's POV!)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow! I was not expecting such a strong response so quickly. I'm ecstatic and extremely flattered that you're enjoying this so much! **

**The comments I received prompted me to finish up the second chapter of this in one morning (which is lightning fast, for me). ****So you had all better appreciate it, because I've been procrastinating all day to get it posted! Y'hear? *squints threateningly*  
><strong>

**Again, this part was both awkward and cathartic to find myself typing out (I've never, _never_ written anything remotely smutty in my life). I don't know how it happened exactly, but I suspect it's strongly to do with some serious pent-up sexual frustration concerning a certain English actor with a very silly name. And a voice which has been likened to a jaguar hiding inside a cello.  
>...Not that I've watched a YouTube video of his voice narrating a car commercial or anything just to hear him say words...What?...<br>**

***Ahem*  
><strong>

**Anyways, thanks to your encouragement, here's Part Two in all its glory!  
>The opening paragraph is Sherlock's POV, as promised.<strong>

***Warnings: Sexy, sexy foreplay. And sex, sort of. If you're not sure, I still encourage you to try it out, as it builds up pretty gradually. (I'm talking to you, faeryenchanter!) I purposely wrote it much less graphically (in my opinion) than a lot of the other fics that deal with this stuff. But...I could be wrong! Constructive criticism is appreciated, y'all.  
><strong>

***Disclaimer: NOT MY CHARACTERS. Please don't hunt me down with pitchforks.  
><strong>

**Also, Thanks especially to , the first replier, and to Nocturnias.  
><strong>

/

His P.O.V.

_He had been so bored. He was left alone with nothing to do and no one to talk to (or at), and his restless brain was slowly driving him mad. Cigarettes wouldn't cut it. A few years ago he would have distracted himself with drugs. Just two weeks ago he would have distracted himself with a new case. Neither being available, it was hardly a surprise that a surge of confused emotions and unfamiliar sensations was a welcome escape._ _Not his emotions, mind. The _incident _of the past week which had effectively destroyed his life had conjured up plenty of feelings he hadn't known he possessed, and at the present moment he couldn't handle another ounce of emotional confusion. So instead he latched onto the dozens of conflicting feelings which were by now emanating in waves from the warm body underneath him, and his ravenous mind thrilled as it attempted to capture, categorize, and deduce the every minutia of her response to his advances. He was also keenly observing his own physical reactions - he could feel his skin heating up feverishly and his heart pounding which sent the adrenaline coursing through him as his body rushed to keep up with the overwhelming amount of incoming sensory information. He was fascinated by the ease with which instinctual behavior took over, telling him where to touch and how much pressure to use and exactly what to do with his tongue. These things were all wonderfully novel and exciting - and so refreshingly _Not Boring _- and if pure carnal pleasure happened to come as part of the deal then that was just a convenient bonus._

/

She was drowning. Oh god, she was drowning in him.

First she had gasped with surprise, and then a small moan escaped involuntarily from the back of her throat, and he took that as an invitation to stick his tongue into her mouth. He had then proceeded to lower himself until he'd closed the space between their bodies entirely, still mostly supporting his own weight but also managing to make her feel like she was being crushed into the mattress. The flood of new sensations from the kiss alone was making her see stars. Her senses were entirely filled by him - by the scent of his skin and the hint of shampoo in his hair and the taste of his breath and his tongue and the heat of his body and the weight of his chest against her breasts and his hips pressing into hers. It was enough to make her feel lightheaded.

The first coherent thought she had was that he weighed a lot more than he really ought to for someone who regularly went without a proper meal for days at a time. Evidently, he was quite a bit more muscular than he looked, though how _that_ worked she hadn't the foggiest idea, especially when he'd always seemed so gaunt and ephemeral. Nevertheless, it was impossible to miss the stunning masculinity of his physique from this particular proximity.

One of her hands found his arm and she gripped it tightly, digging her fingers into his flexed bicep. The act elicited a groan that resonated in his throat and deep in his chest. Pressed against him as she was, she could feel the resulting vibrations travel through her whole body, _inside_ her body, and for the second time that night she forgot how to breathe.

He finally came up for air, and she found herself gasping. She shut her eyes as he shifted himself slightly lower and buried his face in her neck. He kissed the space beneath her jaw and ghosted his lips over her skin, which tingled hotly wherever he made contact. Then, he paused over a spot near the side of her throat and bit down rather aggressively. It hurt, and the unexpected collision of pleasure and pain made her positively dizzy. She wrapped both of her arms around him, clinging desperately to his solid form for support as his mouth clamped down over the soft skin - claiming it; sucking at it until he'd made sure it would leave a visible mark. Then he continued moving lower. She could feel her heart rate go up with every inch.

She wondered momentarily whether she ought to be doing something, but he honestly didn't seem to care, and at any rate it was all she could do just to lay there and take shuddering breaths and try not to faint.

He kissed the hollow of her throat tenderly and raked his teeth again and again over her collarbone, before starting to explore it with his tongue. Finding his progress suddenly impeded by the fabric of her shirt, he reached his hand down beneath the covers and groped about near her waist until he found its hem. When she realized what he was about to do, she felt her breath hitch, but before she could protest his other hand had slipped under the small of her back and she felt the soft cotton inching up her torso. When it was free of her shoulders he tugged it right over her head and tossed it in a heap onto the floor.

Wasting no time, he then went back to meticulously ravishing her collarbone with a fervor that made her heart leap. She moaned breathlessly and ran her fingertips over his scalp, tugging at his hair and twisting it between her fingers. A spasm of pleasure traveled down his spine, and he groaned softly at the pressure, exhaling against her skin.

Not many people, she mused, noticed that despite his aloofness and general snobbishness and apparent aversion to all human contact, he was in fact an extremely tactile person. She knew he preferred texting to calling, for instance, and he was constantly fidgeting with things when he felt agitated. It was just how he liked to gather information - he would frequently take apart and reassemble mechanical devices to discover the inner workings, and he'd never shown the least bit of hesitation to run his hands over a fresh cadaver if he thought it might be likely to reveal an interesting sample of empirical data. If she had ever overlooked this particular character trait in him, she could by now be entirely certain that it wouldn't ever happen again.

Presently she felt his fingers glancing over her breasts, and her train of thought promptly evaporated as she savored his lingering touch. Suddenly it seemed like less of a mistake that she had decided not to wear a bra to bed. He started to kiss a line down the center of her heaving chest. One of her hands was still holding the back of his head, pressing him closer, and the other fell to her side, clutching at the mattress.

All at once she felt an overwhelming need for the lower half of her body to be closer to him than the heavy duvet was allowing for. She shuffled her feet a bit, trying to kick it towards the foot of the bed. When he felt what she was doing he shifted his weight to make it easier for her. Lifting his head from her chest, he leaned forward to kiss her on the mouth, this time choosing to bite into her lower lip, chewing at it gently.

Meanwhile, the sheets and the blanket pooled somewhere around her ankles. She could feel cool air on the exposed skin - all she was wearing was a thin pair of cotton pajama-shorts.

He released her from the kiss and sat up slowly, still straddling her legs. Eyes smoldering, he reached for the sides of his gray t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Looking down smugly, he gave her a moment to admire the sight of his shirtless torso. She couldn't help staring, entirely mesmerized, because whatever she'd always imagined, it could never be as wonderfully satisfying as having the real thing right before her eyes. (_Damn him_, she thought, _with his stupid sexy smirk and his stupid perfect body_... before it occurred to her to wonder why she was _complaining_.) Bending over her again, he pushed himself backwards several more inches and lowered himself back down on top of her, now pressing kisses against her ribcage. His skin was hot against hers. His touch was roaming dangerously close to her hips. She found she could hardly breathe.

Soon one of his hands pressed up against her side, stroking her skin with his thumb. She thrilled at his caress as if it were an electric current. His fingers traveled down, past her waist, her hip, to the side of her leg. Slowly - so achingly slowly that it hurt - he traced his hand inward and up under the fabric of her shorts to stroke the sensitive skin at the crease of her thigh, just under the lacy hem of her panties. (Thank the lord she had actually chosen to wear a flattering pair of undergarments.) She arched her back, pressing her hips toward him pleadingly. He was teasing her, and she could hardly stand it. An uncharacteristically roguish smile came to his lips, as he drank in the intoxicating sense of power.

"Patience..." she heard him murmur from somewhere above her right hip, before he resumed his exploration of her skin with his mouth. She uttered a sort of incomprehensible squeak in reply that sounded a bit like, "nnnNNng!"

His tongue moved across her lower belly - he was nearly licking the waistband of her shorts - and when he reached her other hip he bit down with a devilish snarl that made her gasp out loud in surprise. She moaned in breathless agony, wanting him desperately and immediately.

He could sense her urgency, and decided to finally acquiesce. Raising himself away to a sitting position, he slipped his fingers underneath the edge of her pajamas on either side of her waist. She lifted her hips up, and he pulled both her shorts and her panties down past her knees in one smooth gesture.

Feeling her tremble beneath him in anticipation, he was suddenly seized by a whim. He reached down and slid his right hand underneath her waist so that his arm was wrapped around her hips, and with his left he caressed the inside of her knee for a moment, before running his fingers all the way up the inside of her thigh and thrusting his hand directly between her legs. He made her cry out. Her body shuddered and spasmed violently, and she squirmed in his arms. With his grip tight around her waist, bracing the small of her back, he pushed against her even harder, feeling his way inside her, until she was hyperventilating and tears streamed down the side of her face.

He had almost pushed her over the edge, he could tell, and he wanted to finish her properly.

He wanted to see if he could make her scream his name.

He released her waist and reached up to kiss the edge of her jaw, whispering three words into her ear -

"_Close your eyes._"

She was lying limp beneath him, trying to recover (and not succeeding very well), and she did as she was told. She felt him kneeling over her, felt him push down his sweatpants and boxer shorts, felt him shift forward to cover her body with his, felt his breath against her neck, felt...felt...

Then she forgot what feeling was, because she was feeling _everything_, and stars - whole galaxies - exploded in the blackness before her eyes.

He got his wish.

/

**A/N:**

**Phew! That was intense! **

**Please tell me what you thought - of the writing, of the characters, of the smutty parts (which is, like, the whole thing)... Was I way off? Was it realistic? Was it cheesy? Did you find the subtle humor? I gots ta know!**

**(I know I'm not the only person who likes to imagine that, in the overwhelmingly unlikely event that Sherlock ****got involved with someone in a romantic capacity, he would unquestionably and inexplicably be really, really good at it. Possibly through sheer force of will.)**


End file.
